How to save Sherlock Holmes
by Esta
Summary: "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven." (John Milton: Paradise Lost) The aftermath of HLV leaves the Holmes family at the edge of despair. Sherlock under arrest and Mycroft slowly falling apart there is only one person left to save Sherlock Holmes: Mary Watson. And so a plot is set into motion to bring back an old enemy.
1. Chapter 1

**How to safe Sherlock Holmes**

Summary: SPOILER alert: HIS LAST VOW! The aftermath of the shooting and Sherlock's arrest leaves everyone devastated and without a clue what to do. Everyone but Mary. Can be read as a sequel to "Brothers".

Xxxx

It was the day after the shooting and everything had fallen quiet. Too quiet for Mary's liking, it was the quietness of a grave she had far too often encountered in her life. Every time she had shot a man, a woman, once even a child – a mistake she still did regret – the quiet afterwards for her had been the worst part. When the adrenaline rush stopped and the deed was done all that was left was the darkness that slowly consumes the soul of a killer – if he or she still possesses one. Mary had never been completely able to deny her heart, to shut out every feeling. Not like Mycroft. Not like so many of her colleagues at the CIA. That is why she had left. All of a sudden one day it had simply become too much. As every good agent she had prepared for the case she had to go undercover, to hide from snipers, killers, her own people. Like every good agent she had made a run without telling anyone. Officially she was dead and even the name she now wore like an honorary medal was that of a dead girl.

It was the day after the shooting and the quiet was getting under her skin. Even John's soft kiss in the morning, the first signs of forgiveness, did nothing to take away the pain. Even the movements of her child could not stop the guilt slowly creeping deeper and deeper into her heart. Her fault. Everything had been her fault. First she had shot Sherlock instead of trusting him. And now she had made him take these extreme measures. It was as if she had held the gun herself again. She had made Sherlock shoot a man. She was responsible for whatever would happen to him now. John had told her. John had told everyone. Everyone but Mycroft. The man who knew. The man who had seen too much.

Mycroft was gone now. After hours standing outside in the cold, not even tempted to come in after his mother had first begged than shouted at him, he had finally taken a helicopter into town. But the emptiness had never left his eyes. Something had been destroyed in a man that had always seemed too strong to be broken by anything at all.

He had promised to do anything he could. "Myc please don't let him go to prison. Please..." That was something he could not have promised: Too many witnesses, too prominent a figure.

The Holmes brothers both had become hollow creatures over night. It was something John had told her the evening before. John had not even been able to hold back tears, something absolutely untypical for him. He had not cried at Sherlock's funeral Mary was told, he had not cried when he found out his wife had shot his best friend, he had not cried when is best friend turned into a murderer to protect this treacherous wife. But he did that evening. "Something is destroyed in him," he said. "He told me to stand back. I think he expected them to shoot him and he accepted it. It was the price he was willing to pay to keep his vow... Mary... I think they would have killed him had it not been for his brother stopping them in track." Mary had kissed John's hand. So cold. "When they finally arrested him – and me, but don't mind that – I could finally look into his eyes. I expected rage, maybe regret or pain, even insanity. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. I think he has given up, Mary. He is dying, and this time properly."

They had not slept much that night. Sherlock's parents had argued, later cried and whispered comforting words to each other downstairs. Where Mycroft was, no one knew. John had tossed in his sleep as soon as he started to slumber only to wake up minutes later staring into the night. Even the child in her had been restless.

In the morning everything had become quiet. No sound. John and Sherlock's parents had gone for a walk and with Mycroft not back from London Mary had been left on her own. Too quiet. Too dark. And all her fault.

Suddenly a pale brown folder fell into her lap.

"Is this the thing he was trying to hide from me, from everyone?"

"Mycroft?"

She did not hear him enter the house. And now he was standing there in his immaculate suit, stiff like always but with unhidden rage in his eyes.

"Is this why my brother destroyed his own life, Mrs. Watson, or shall I better call you..."

"Don't. Please don't." She should have been frightened, but after all these ups and downs in only a few days there was no energy left in her to fight back or give in. She simply did no longer care. Her child would be safe with John. John had forgiven her. The rest was history. "I never asked him to..."

"No, why would you? You never needed to ask." Mycroft spit out the last part. "You and John Watson, you don't ask, you simply get. No matter what the cost for my brother. Did John know? Of course he did... oh..."

Mary was sure Mycroft would have killed her that instant would it not have been for the child inside her belly. He was no monster after all.

"You shot him. You! And I never even suspected... you three are far too good in hiding things. But no more... no more..."

Mycroft started pacing through the living room. He did not even look at her. And again there was this hollow look in his eyes, not the one he and his brother took when wandering through their minds, no, it was one of complete loss. He looked like a man no longer sure who he was.

"I can't protect him. Prison or death, there is one other alternative left for him: A mission to the East that will surely kill him or lifelong prison. But that will kill him in the long term as well. Using drugs or being killed while attempting to flee. God..." Mycroft suddenly stopped and buried his head in his hands. His head clearly did hurt from all that thinking, the lack of sleep and the mountain of despair growing with every passing hour. Outside they could hear people approaching.

"Then send him to the East, Mycroft. Send him and don't tell John why."

"What? Lying again, Mary Watson?" Like a predator he moved towards her but stopped in his track. "What," he whispered. "What don't I see?"

Mary moved forward in her chair so that her face was nearly brushing his. "Get him out of prison and I'll get him back to England – before it is too late."

"You can't do that."

She took hold of the folder and tossed it into the fire. "I am sure you read all the information about me you could dig out on such a short notice. I should have hidden things better. But now you know things and you also know that I can. I can get him back. And no one will ever know you and I have been involved." A smile spread over her face. For others it might have seemed sincere but it was not meant that way and Mycroft knew. He was only fooled once and he would not underestimate her a second time.

The door to the cottage was opening and Mary could hear John talking. "I will do anything for John," she said. "And for Sherlock, if it comes to that. They cannot exist without each other. You should know that. And if I say I can bring your brother back, I will. Promised."

"I can't and won't trust you." They were whispering now, so the approaching party would not hear them.

Mary laughed. "You are right: You can't trust me, but your brother can."

Mary could feel Mycroft measuring her before he took three steps back and set down on the sofa opposite her, playing the normality one would expect to encounter in a house like this would it not be in the ownership of a family named Holmes. "So," he said. "What now?"

"Now?" Mary smiled and a wicked gleam was in her eyes. Oh, she had a plan. And what a plan. Sherlock would like this so much. John wouldn't but his opinion did not count at the moment. He would never approve but John would thank them none the less as soon as he had his Sherlock back. "Now," she said, "it is time to bring back an old enemy."


	2. Chapter 2

I am in the mood to write and after your kind remarks I think this will be getting a bit longer. I love Mycroft. And Mary… oh Mary… Prepare yourself for the hunt on Moriarty. And people dying. Or not?

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Traces<strong>

_Three months later_

Mycroft Holmes sat on his chair, hands neatly folded on the top of his desk, a statue of calmness and control. He could fool anyone with that pose, anyone but himself – and maybe his brother. Lady Smallwood never even cared to look at him properly. Perhaps she would have seen: The utter exhaustion in his eyes, the far too tight lips telling about his anxiety and the sweet pearls on his forehead spoke volumes of how tiring the last three months had been. Three months of covering tracks. Three months making sure no one knew, especially his little brother. Three months without proper sleep and attempts not to know what someone else was doing not really behind his back.

"So everything you tell me, Mycroft, is that neither you, nor your people, nor anyone else in the bloody damn business has a clue who is behind this complot, or whatever you might call it?"

"If you put it so: Yes." Mycroft could not even believe that his voice could sound so calm while lying to one of the most important people in the country: Lady Smallwood. Again. But who cared. They all came and went. She was not the queen. And Mycroft had more than once even lied to the prime minister.

She turned around, her eyes glaring. "This is not a joke."

"Oh lady Smallwood, please be assured: It is not. To be honest it is a security nightmare I would rather not encounter ever again." And that was not even a lie this time.

"So no trace of Moriarty or whoever is behind this. You and every intelligent officer had convinced me Moriarty was dead after the incident with your brother. And suddenly out of nowhere he is back. And at what a convenient time."

A line like a punch in his gut, well aimed and nearly hitting the core of a secret operation – Mycroft had to take a deep breath to stop himself from flinching. "What are you implying?"

"Don't play dumb on me, Mycroft." She was now leaning over his desk, very controlling for a woman who has nearly lost all control over her life because of her husband's stupid love affair – even if it was only in letters. "We both know: Whoever hides his traces that well has to be a genius. A genius like your brother who happened to be shipped off to a deadly operation and just at that exact moment Moriarty comes back. Tell me that this is just a lucky coincidence."

"I don't know if it is lucky, but a coincidence it is. You can't be implying my brother had something to do with this. He was in prison. And you got to know which state he was in. You have seen it." Mycroft seldom raised his voice but the mixture of fury and fear got the better of him.

Lady Smallwood lent back on her heals and smiled. "Maybe not him, but someone has made sure your brother could be staying in this country. Maybe not him, but someone close to him?"

Mycroft slowly rose from his chair. "If there is someone else behind this, someone other than Moriarty, I will make sure to catch him."

"Oh sure, you do." Lady Smallwood smiled again, well-mannered as she was raised but with a hint of annoyance. What did that woman think? That he would be so easily to break? Or was it simply a shot in the dark? He could take no risk.

"Would you please excuse me now, my lady? I have work to do and criminals to catch, as you so nicely laid out to me." He gestured towards the door, somewhat rude but he was beyond care. Mycroft felt nauseous. When was the last time he had eaten properly? Breakfast at five, after that two hours meeting at his office, than Downing Street, back to do some office work… How late was it? 4 pm. He should have taken a break. But there was simply no time.

"Mycroft?"

"Oh excuse me. Yes?"

"I said: Do we see each other in the meeting tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, yes, of course." How could he have missed that question?

"Oh and Mycroft: Please be sure that you can trust your own brother. It would be a shame if you would fall over another of his mistakes. This one would be really too grave."

He glared at her in his most intimidating manner but she did not even flinch. "I am sure. And now: Goodbye."

He opened the door and let her out of his office, Mycroft turned before she could make another remark. But then he held himself back and smiled at her again. "Oh and Lady Smallwood, before you start a manhunt on my brother, please consider who had taken him into this messy business with Magnussen. It was you, was it not?" She paled. "Or was it your husband." And with that he closed the door into her face.

"_You have to take it more lightly, Mycroft. I told you so. And now breathe. Deep in and out."_ Good god, why had his inner John Watson always have to come out at times like this. Mycroft stumbled. He never stumbled. And this sweat was not normal. He had to pause before he even reached his chair, holding onto his desk. This was beyond the typical nausea that has plagued him for days now. _"You should really look after your health." _God, John, shut up.

A fiery pain ripped through his chest and his left arm started to throb. Shit. Shit.

Mycroft slowly walked the last one and a half meter to his chair and slowly let himself glide down. Surely he could simply breathe it away. It had worked the other times. In and out. _"Mycroft don't be an idiot and call an ambulance."_ When had his voice of reason become that of John Watson?

The next wave of pain hit him with even more force. And now Mycroft was worried. No correction: Terrified. With shaking hands he pulled out his phone. Where was his assistant when he needed her? Right. Sent to kidnap his brother.

"Shee… Sherlock." Mycroft was shivering now and he felt himself gliding out of his chair. He had to tell his brother to stop his hunt for Moriarty. He had done so before. But now… god, if he was no longer able to cover every trace that Watson-woman left, she would be caught. Or not. Or. When had his mind stopped working properly? And why was he on the floor? And the phone? Why exactly was it in his hand?

"Oh brother dear, tell me again: When did you stop texting and started phoning me, again?"

That voice. Was it real? Another wave of pain hid him and this time he could not keep himself from groaning.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock should better stop talking now, he sounded like a child. His voice had this tiny little hint of panic in it like those time he had messed with Mycroft's experiments and something had gone wrong – again.

"You seem to be in a hurry today, first sending your assistant to kidnap me and then phoning, too. Mycroft?"

"_Breathe. Don't stop breathing."_ Oh hi there, John again. So calm. His brother's voice on the line now had a more panicking sound.

Oh, and there was his old friend pain again. Hello. Missed me? Missed me? Missed me?

Where was that coming from?

"Mycroft tell me: Is it Moriarty? Mycroft? Shit, talk to me. We are nearly there. Whatever he is doing to you, I'll get you. Do you listen? Mycroft? Myc? Brother, please…"

The voice was slowly fading. Where had it come from, again?

He was slowly fading away. Sleep. Dear me, sleeping sounded so appealing. Remind me, when did I sleep the last time? Oh…

**To be continued**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Little brother**

The first thing he saw was blinding light. What a cliché. Could dying not be a bit less boring. But then there were flickering shadows and a voice. He knew it. Where from?

"Oh come on Mycroft, just open your eyes and don't be even more dramatic."

Ah yes, of course. Who else.

"You simply could have told me to piss off. No, you have to get a heart attack only not to answer my questions. And haven't I told you not to eat that much cake, you arteries must look like a fat paradise. No wonder your heart refused you after indulging in so many sweets. Heart attack, how boring can anyone get."

Heart attack? That was where the pain came from… oh, hello, again.

Mycroft blinked but the lights were far too bright, and his throat felt rough. How could he even attempt to speak when simply breathing did hurt?

"They had to intubate you, you had stopped breathing. But believe me it passes, speaking of lifelong experience." Sherlock chuckled, but there was a stain of sorrow in his voice. A hand was behind Mycroft's back, slowly pushing him upright and then this someone held a glass to his lips.

"You have to drink slowly, it will make it better." So cold, wet and good.

"Thank you," Mycroft whispered.

"Stop being so pathetic or I simply spill the water over you." Even the harsh words could not deny the softness in Sherlock's voice, the caring. His brother had a far too big heart, too big for his own good. "Wait."

Suddenly his little brother was gone, steps through the room and then the lights dimmed. Ah, how thoughtful: Closing the curtains. Mycroft had to smile. His mind seemed to get back on track. He dared to slowly open his eyes. Sherlock was back at his bedside, a sleep deprived face, tangled hair and the clothes in a mess.

"You look awful," Mycroft said.

"Says the man in the nightgown – with an open backside I might add."

Mycroft laughed in spite of the pain. "So we are back on old terms, then, brother dear."

"Don't brother-dear me, Mycroft. You know you have to answer some questions soon enough. Simply telling me not to hunt Moriarty despite telling me that he was the reason you are not sending me abroad – that does not work on me."

"Sherlock…"

"I know, you are ill." Sherlock put his hands in the air as if to surrender. "But not forever."

"Sherlock… don't look for him."

"You know this is far too tempting a riddle not to approach it: Moriarty is dead. I have seen him die. And don't tell me anyone could blow his head away and afterwards walk around London turning every screen in the country into a threat. It has to be his organisation since you are clearly not behind this…"

All this rants. Always talking. Too fast. Mycroft's head seemed to explode.

"Little one, please…"

Mycroft had not used these words for Sherlock in a very long time, not since… Yes, Redbeard's death. Driven over by a drunken truck driver. Sherlock had screamed at Mycroft afterwards. "I am not little, I am not… and you are mean and bad… and always away. Redbeard was my friend, my only friend… I hate you. I hate you all!" It had been neither his nor Sherlock's or their parent's fault but someone had forgotten to close the gate that day. And Sherlock had no one else to blame.

"You have got a headache. Feeling nauseous? Any pain in the chest? Shall I call a doctor?"

Sherlock's eyes were big with fear and for a few seconds he looked like the little unruly boy Mycroft so well remembered. He took his little brother's hand. It was so warm and soft. Or was his own so cold?

"For the love you might have ever felt for anyone close to you. Sherlock, I beg you. Stop. Stop it for your own sake. Leave Moriarty be."

"It was clearly not you. Can't be you. Far too risky… who else… who else…"

This absent minded look again, this furious eye movements. Wherever Sherlock believed to find the evidence in his mind palace, he clearly was on a trace.

And then his eyes went big. "Ohhhhhhhh."

Mycroft closed his eyes. How could he have ever thought they would fool his little brother.

"Ohhhhhhh." And then he started to laugh. "This is genius!"

The only thing missing was Sherlock dancing through the room. Everything else was there: The gleam, the smile, the spark, the life… Mycroft would have dared to smile would he not felt this sudden stab of fear. If Sherlock could figure it out, who else could? Mary.

All of the sudden Sherlock had become very quite, mustering his older brother. "You are tired. You worked. You covered for her, didn't you? You did this to yourself, you overworked, just for… for me?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. He did not do in sentiment. He wanted to say something, anything but just that exact moment a nurse came in. "Mr. Holmes, your brother needs rest. Would you please say goodbye and let him sleep a bit."

All Mycroft anticipated was a snide remark toward the nurse but she had shuffled away before his little brother had a chance to open the fire. Not their first encounter, then.

Mycroft opened his eyes again and suddenly Sherlock's face was very close. "I would say thank you, Mycroft," he whispered into his ear. "But since I had to reanimate you after your stupid stunt – and don't tell me you had to neglect yourself like this – I don't think I owe you anything."

Energetic as he was Sherlock nearly jumped from the bed, all the way to the door he seemed not to walk but to glide. "And by the way it was like kissing you. I mean kissing your brother is… but you... simply disgusting. I think you still owe me for that." Sherlock smiled, a wicked gleam in his eyes. And then he turned to leave.

"Why did you do it then? Why could you not have let me die instead?" Was there bitterness in his own voice? Mycroft knew Sherlock's words were not meant to hurt. He simply did not do sentiment, they were brothers after all and their conversation had bordered already too far on the emotional side.

The door handle already in his hand Sherlock stopped. And then too fast and too soft to really understand, he spoke the first kind words to his brother in years: "Because I would have missed you."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Let's go back in time for a while. Shall we? This happens right at the beginning before Mycroft has a chance to speak with Mary, if you are wondering. This one is a bit sentimental (again, how disgusting) but some action will follow soon. Promised.

**Chapter 4: To Loneliness I Follow You**

_Day One after the shooting_

It has been years ago that Mycroft Holmes out of a mood had watched "The Green Mile", the movie with a name taken from the long way prisoners sentenced to death had to walk between their cell and their last minutes in life. Mycroft had not enjoyed it. Far too sentimental. But now, walking down the corridor to the lonely cell at its end, he felt like one of these doomed men.

_Iceman._ Fuck the shit. While he pretended he was without feelings Mycroft clearly was not. And it was disgusting: Physical pain caused by emotion – whoever had invented that should be stoned to death.

He took a last deep breath before motioning the guard to open the door. Prepared for anything: Fury. Anger. Mocking. Even Tears. But not the loneliness that was seeping out of the darkened cell.

"Don't linger outside, Mycroft. What do you want?"

The words meant to be spoken in spite sounded hollow and empty, like a robot stripped of his former humanity.

"Brother dear." Mycroft stepped into the cell, whishing for his umbrella to steady himself. But he had to leave that at the door. Even he was not allowed to carry a potential weapon into a prison.

Sherlock was dressed like he had been the evening before, only shoes, coat and belt were missing. His face was far too pale and the way he hugged his own body spoke of the exhaustion and devastation his brother was feeling. Unlike Mycroft Sherlock had never been able to hide his feelings. He was like an open book for those who knew him even though he could fool anyone else.

"If you have come to scold me: Spare yourself. I don't want to hear it."

Mycroft sat next to his brother. The cell was empty, only a hard bed was in it and a hole in the floor to be used as urinal. Nothing was there for a prisoner to harm himself. Good. That was one thing he had never trusted his brother with, Sherlock had a tendency to be a danger to himself. The drugs had only been one way to destroy the younger man. Now Sherlock had proven his tendency of self-harm again – and this time properly. Mycroft felt his brother's eyes on him, dark orbs above hollow cheeks, blue circles were under Sherlock's eyes and every spark had left them.

"You ask yourself why I did what I did. One thing you can't deduce about me, never could: I am a killer." Sherlock laughed but again sounded hollow.

"No, you are not."

"I have shot a man."

"You regret it now."

Again Sherlock laughed. This time he sounded more sincere. "No Mycroft. There might be many things I regret, but this is not one of them. I did what I did intentionally. I chose to do it. I decided and I knew the consequences."

"Did you, now?" Mycroft felt a knot in his throat and he had to swallow hard. How he longed to cry. But he could not allow himself any weakness. The brain mattered more than the heart, his brain he had to use not his feelings for his stupid little...

"Don't deny me the right to say the truth Mycroft. You know I chose it. I had to protect them: My friends and even you. Magnussen would have used everything he knew to destroy us, everyone bit by bit."

"Whom? He would have destroyed whom exactly?" Mycroft tried to find his inner strength again, needed to focus. The brain mattered, only the brain.

"It does no longer matter, brother mine. I knew the price, now I am willing to pay. What is your decision? Prison or the MI6 mission?" Did Sherlock sound frightened or was it just his own fear Mycroft heard in his brother's voice?

"It is no longer my decision. I can do nothing..." And suddenly Mycroft's eyes burned. Shit. The cell seemed darker than it already was. Mycroft tried to concentrate on the pale dust reflecting in the light of one single lamp far above the door.

"We better say farewell then." Sherlock stood up, bringing himself into a pose of clear dismissal. A forced smile was on his lips. "Even if 'fare _well_' might be the wrong term in my case. Don't look like that. I know I'm going to die. I never expected to leave Magnussen's house alive. Not after I pulled the gun and... It... It is alright now. Everyone is safe. It is fine. I am fine."

"Sherlock..."

With forced strides Sherlock walked to the door and started banging against it until the guard opened the heavy steel trapping them inside. "My brother intends to go!"

"Mister Holmes?" The guard looked insecurely from one brother to another.

"All right... all right..." Mycroft knew when he was defeated by his brother. "If you would have only let me help..."

"Just go."

His feet felt heavy as he walked towards the door, away from his brother not sure if he would ever be able to speak to him alone again. His position was in danger and so was every possibility he had ever had to safe his brother. And Mycroft felt like marionette entangled in his own strings. There was no longer a way to deny it. Stupid. Stupid. And always because of Sherlock.

"Oh and Mycroft: Please tell mummy I try to phone more often from now on."

Mycroft nodded, it was the closest Sherlock would ever get to tell their parents how much he loved them. And somehow this was even sadder than the facts themselves: Sherlock was a cold blooded murderer and he would die because of that. His brother would die fighting on a mission or using drugs, it was easy to get them in prison even high security ones. And was there really a difference between these two when you have failed the only person that had ever mattered? Mycroft had to steady his strides.

It was time for the meeting and Mycroft dreaded every second that would pass till then. Death or death? He would try to buy some more time, to investigate, to speak with the Watsons, with his parents. But in the end he would have to decide. Death or death? Mycroft would have to speak the sentence over his brother. Or fall himself. What kind of choice was that?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: A Friend Left Behind**

_Still Day One after the shooting_

Only the lonely ones are lucky in death, all the others leave someone behind, someone damaged by grieve, someone once loved and now alone. All of us have to face it: Those going into darkness, embracing death have the lighter fate than those whose have to cope with loss, fear and loneliness. John had felt that once: The earth shattering desperation that follows once most beloved's death. And now sitting at the window of Sherlock's childhood room he felt it again, the darkness creeping in, like a poltergeist slowly taking possession of his damaged soul, laying a shadow over every bit of happiness in his life. It should not feel like this. His life. He and Mary were on good terms again, a child on the way, the threat banned and his best friend alive and well... no, actually not well.

"Oh Sherlock." John's whisper drew Mary closer.

"You could have done nothing to prevent that, John."

"I know. I could not foresee this. I think even he did not see that coming. That's what Magnussen said: Sherlock had made a terrible mistake... Mary..." The last word was spoken longer and his desperation was seeping through every syllable. Mary did let him speak, a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you know how it feels to be shot?" His voice had a coldness he had not heard since his speech of forgiveness.

"No."

"First there is nothing, it happens so sudden that your brain needs some time to comprehend, the few seconds it takes for you to fall down. Then there is the shock. It is in every pore of your body, it can kill you, you know. And afterwards all that is left is the pain. It's worth than anything, burning, shredding, trashing. I was shot in the shoulder. That was bad. But Sherlock? Your shot had scratched the lung. I can only imagine how it feels suddenly not being able to breathe..."

Mary's hand was shaking slightly. "John, I said I was sorry..."

"It's not about you, Mary. It's about him. Being shot is a terrible experience; it leaves traces of fear in you. No matter how brave one pretends to be. You will fear to be shot again. None the less Sherlock shot Magnussen. He shot... Every man – even without a genius brain – knows in what shooting a man normally results when you are surrounded by special ops."

It was the first time John looked up and looked Mary's in the face. His eyes were dark hollows, a mirror of the despair that threatened to devour his soul. "I never saw his face but I think... I think he was not only prepared to kill, but to die. And this time for real. For you. For us."

"Oh John." Mary took John in her arms, a warm embrace to push away the darkness and the cold. She stroke his hair and kissed his head. John took in her familiar smell – and something new. Mary had changed her perfume. He could feel the child moving inside her belly. And all he could feel was the instinct to protect his family. Family. Sherlock had become part of that and now he was missing, locked away for a crime committed out of love.

"_Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side... remember John?"_ John could have cried in the remembrance of this. Sherlock had been right after all. His wish to protect John, Mary and the child had clouded his judgement. None of them had seen what was right in front of them. Magnussen's hollow eyes when staring at people, John should have recognised it. Sherlock sometimes had the same when mentally running through his mind-palace in search of evidence. But then: Sherlock had never been shark-like, never cold and never a business man selling the lives of others to the highest bidder. Sherlock was fire, energy, a flame consuming everything, sometimes the genius himself resulting in one of his terrible lows.

"_I am a high functioning sociopath... Do your research Anderson."_ John had to smile. What a farce, what a bad attempt. Sherlock sometimes had sociopathic tendencies but not because he did not feel emotions himself but because he was bad in handling them. He rather refused having any than to deal with the pain and the humiliation they might cause. His laughter, his caring and most of all his willingness to sacrifice himself for the work, for his friends spoke a different language. Sherlock was bad in dealing with emotions and therefore for him it was not easy to understand human behaviour, the reactions of people around him. And he had a terrible tendency to speak the truth, mostly without realising how much that might hurt others. Apart from lies told to get what he wanted or to investigate Sherlock was a force of nature when it came to rub salt into open wounds in telling the truth.

"_I am a high functioning sociopath."_ That was the only lie John had ever heard Sherlock tell more than once. And the worst lie ever. But it was close enough to the truth for Sherlock to convince himself that feelings actually did not exist, close enough to give him the strength to shoot a man out of cold blood. Without even flinching – that was the most shocking thing John had ever witnessed. John the soldier...

"_Seen lot's of violent deaths?... Wanna see some more?"_ It was a single teardrop John allowed himself, face still buried in Mary's jumper. No. No more. Not yours, Sherlock. Not again.

"_Stand back, John."_ Too shocked to move, too desperate to speak, John had silently witnessed the red dots dancing on Sherlock's face, red dots of death. One shoot to end them all – Sherlock's death would have torn them all apart. No matter how hard John had tried to forgive Mary, had Sherlock died that moment he would not have been able to heal the wounds torn into his own soul. Not to speak of Mary's. Or Mycroft's.

"_Don't shoot Sherlock Holmes."_ Mycroft like so often had saved his little brother, at least his body. John had only once looked into Sherlock's eyes after the shooting and all he had seen was surrender. The hollowness had found its counterpart in Mycroft's eyes. No iceman here, but Mycroft had let special ops take away his brother. John had bodily felt how much Mycroft longed to run after him, but there was one last task to do beforehand: Telling the parents her younger son had not only ruined Christmas but tried to sell state secrets and killed a man. It was a task John had taken over since Mycroft had not even been able to walk properly. And then Mycroft had stood outside in the garden like a statue, only now and then blinking. And in one funny moment it had reminded John of the Weeping Angels even Mary thought terrifying when watching Doctor Who, Mary who found all the other villains rather ridiculous – no wonder about that.

"_Don't shoot Sherlock Holmes."_ At midnight John had gone out and put a coat over Mycroft's shoulder. The man was clearly lost somewhere in his sort of mind palace. But that did not mean he had to freeze to death. It had taken the combined forces of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes to finally get him inside, after that he had only cold remarks for everyone who tried to speak to him. He was working on his computer (yes exactly that one) and answered every question with: "Can't you see I am busy?" Or: "Queen and country do not wait for Christmas to pass." Sometimes only a: "Busy." Or: "Shhhh." In the morning he had been gone. John doubted the elder brother had slept at all.

"John? Hey.. are you listening." John had not even recognised Mary was talking with him.

"Sorry, what?" He looked up to see the elder Holmes in the door. "Sorry, John. We need to get some fresh air and thought maybe you could need some as well?"

Actually yes, he did. The room was far too small a space to stay in for long. And maybe it was better he accompanied them, they were older people and a shock like last evening... better to have a doctor around. That was why they had stayed in the first place. "Yes, thank you... Mary?"

"No, no... you go. Actually my feed could need some rest after all this standing around here." She smiled fondly at him and kissed him on the nose. One of her bad habits. "I will try to read a bit, ok?"

And that is how it came that when Mycroft came back home the only person he found in the house was Mary. And that is how a plan was forged out of nothing, a plan how to safe Sherlock Holmes.

**To be continued**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry it took me a bit longer to write the next chapter. I hope I did not miss any mistakes while proofreading. **

**Sadly there is no well known character in this chapter, or is there? **

**More will come in the next days, but I am not sure how many chapters I will publish in the end. At the moment I know who did what and when. And there are some scenes spinning in my head I like very much. **

**Hope you do so as well. Your likes and reviews were very inspiring and my imagination is now running wild. Keep up: Read and review!**

**Love, Esta**

**Chapter 6: Be careful what you wish for**

_Day two after the shooting_

Herbert Willcox was one of these guys who never wanted to become an adult. And so while already 32 he still clothed like a 16-year-old teenager, mostly in dirt and grease covered baggy trousers and t-shirts with stupid prints. Today his slogan was: "Fuck me, I'm a virgin." None the less his face seemed to be that of a man in his mid- or end forties. That is what constant lack of sleep, junk food, too much cheap alcohol and an addiction to synthetic drugs do to you.

This morning he even looked worse thanks to the fact that the previous evening he had completely blacked himself out on some new creative pill his friend – let's call him Jack – had sent by. Just to test, as he had said, even though both of them knew that Jack only intended to get Herbert hooked up on another drug mixture. Hey, it was not Herbert's fault that all these social workers and clinic experts never got it right, he was no real addict, all right, just into it now and then… more now than then, to be a bit more precise. But shit, fuck off these idiots.

Last evening's stuff must have been the real runner, though. He felt like shit. Adding that he had found himself bound to his chair this morning, the cold metal of a gun pressed against the back of his head, it was no wonder he now even looked older than fifty. Herbert had no idea how it had come to this but he had the vague feeling the drugs had a part in it.

"The instructions are simple. Look at the sheet of paper directly in front of you. As you can see there are numbers on it. The left ones are bank account numbers, the right ones sums. Dollar sums, to be exact", a frighteningly calm woman's voice spoke behind his back.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Just quite a simple task for you. I want you to transfer the money from all of these accounts to the one mentioned on the bottom of the page. And I want you to hide your traces. Hide them very well, if you like to be alive a bit longer…" The woman never changed her tune or her voice, never raised it even though she made a terrible threat.

You have to understand, that Herbert was kind of a math and computer genius and if he had not found a liking to alcohol and drugs in his early teens, he would most likely become successful – as a computer specialist or a hacker and criminal, whatever he chose. But since he liked smoking weed and drinking beer with some stupid excuses of human beings far more than the lonely hours in front of his impressive computer equipment, it had never come to that.

Sometimes out of boredom he had hacked into some computer system, once into Scotland Yard and after that even into MI5, which had frightened him so much he had stopped hacking before he could discover anything important. Transferring money was an easy game for him. Or how do you think was he able to pay for his computers, a flat in the centre of London (yes it was a sticky basement flat, but he liked it) and an unspoken amount of drugs? His "friends" liked him for his generosity. But something had always lacked in his life, something big. Something like the thing that was right in front of him now. The big deal!

"What are these bank accounts?" He was suspicious.

"It doesn't matter."

"Indeed it does, because I have to know if there might be any additional security…"

"CIA bank accounts used for field operations. Most likely not much used in recent years… But you better cover your traces. They normally don't like it when someone messes with their things. Terrorism and the like, you know." He could hear the women chuckle lightly and that was far more terrifying than her calm and monotone voice.

Shit. He had always wanted something like this, something exiting and dangerous but had never dared to do so. And now he was forced at gunpoint and he could not help himself to be exited as he indeed locked himself into his computer.

But shortly later he stopped. "What will you do to me?"

"You transfer the sum and I leave, you don't I shoot you."

"How can I trust you?"

"You can't but I don't think you have a choice," and with that the woman pressed the gun harder against his head.

"Alright… alright…"

Be careful what you wish for, his gran had always said. If you want some excitement go skiing, she had said. Wanting more from life, than life could give you, is a dangerous game to play, gran had said. And now Herbert feared she might have been right all along.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It took Herbert Willcox exactly 32 minutes to transfer the money to a bank account on the Cayman Islands, using various accounts in Belgium, Cuba, Switzerland even China to hide his traces.

It took the CIA computer specialists two days to even detect the breach and two more to find the bank account the money had vanished to. But as they did the game had already moved on and the money used for the next step of the plot. The person behind all this was not found. Only a druggie, dead from an overdose and strangely enough tied to his desk chair could be made out as the source of the attack. Somebody must have used his computer, the man referred to as Herbs (guess where that came from) was known only as a minor hacker and no one suspected him to be a true computer genius. Clearly some mastermind must have got wind of his technical equipment and used it for his purposes, a mastermind like the one that a short time later appeared on television screens all over Britain.

"Did you miss me?"

But was he even real?

**To be continued**


	7. Chapter 7

_I really had a lot to do the last weeks and so I did not find much time to write. Sorry this chapter took me so long, I try not to delay the next chapter that much. A big "Thank you" to everyone who left such nice reviews, followed and favourite this story so far. You made me not to forget writing. To all those who fear I might turn Mary into a murdering bitch: Did I ever said she actually murdered our little computer expert? Was it even her in that room? ;-) I try to stay in character, promise! And I won't make it too hard on John... yet._

_I am not completely happy with this chapter though, I don't think I gave it the depth it deserves. The feelings would not come forward as much as I hoped they would while writing. The idea was long in my head but turning that idea into a certain feeling proved a bit hard this times. Hope you enjoy none the less. And I would love to know what you think._

**Chapter 7: Alone is what I have**

_Day two after the shooting again_

Darkness was creeping in, thick night blue ink seeping through every hole in the wall. Even the air had a slight metallic taste. No, not right. Sherlock slowly licked his lower lip, he had bitten it while thinking too hard. Night was falling and so was he.

_Alone is what I have..._

Sherlock held his own hands to stop them from shaking. The loneliness in his cell was gnawing at his nerves. Boredom came first, cravings followed. He could have easily picked the lock and be gone in no time, every prison had its flaws and loopholes.

But he could no longer motivate himself to do anything at all. And so now he was down on the floor, his aching back on the cold, rough and hard surface – exactly what he needed to focus. He had not moved in hours, switching from wandering his mind palace to watching the light change. The window was high above and far too small but Sherlock could see the bright winter sun fading with every minute, turning into soft yellow and warm orange before losing its colour. It was a dangerous hour, the time the last sunlight had faded and moon has not taken residence on the sky yet. The blue hour – in every sense of the word. Blue for the colour, blue for his mood. And now the day was slowly turning to pitch black night. Not long and the light bulb in his cell would be switched on and he would be forced to cover his tired eyes with his arm.

His head burned, migraines did not often hit him but when they came, they came with full force making his eyeballs explode and turning his brain into mash until he could no longer form a coherent thought. He tried another retreat to his mind palace and flinched. Every step in it now felt like walking barefoot on glass shards. They cut his feet and were pushed into the surface of his mind while he was wandering around. Sherlock's breathing became heavy. He inhaled, panicked and failed to overrule his own dread.

There were three rooms in his mind palace that had been his last resort for such a long time but now two of them had crumbled to dust.

The first was room number 6. He had been that age when his parents had brought home a tiny little puppy: Redbeard his fierce pirate captain who had died so out of grace in a car accident. Mycroft would laugh had he ever known how many memories Sherlock had kept of the red haired dog while deleting any other unnecessary information. The room had fallen apart in pain and blood. That was what being shot does to you, you have to delete certain things connected with the experience. Sherlock himself had destroyed that room when he sought it out as a last retreat in his pain. Good bye, Redbeared. The dog was now running wild in the corridors only appearing now and then when he liked to but never when Sherlock called in panic. Gone. Everything was gone.

_Alone is what I have..._

The second room had three shiny numbers and one letter: 221B. The second room was home. The second room was John. But now every time he opened that door Mary in her wedding dress blocked his way. And so he was shot again. Again and again. Every time. Now even home was lost to him.

_Alone is what I have..._

There was one door left, a door made of dark wood like all doors in his childhood home. There was no number, no name on this one. But an umbrella leaned at the wall next to it. Sherlock had bought it years ago as a birthday present. Partly out of spite, Mycroft never went out in the rain. Partly as a real gift, because at that time Sherlock sometimes had hoped Mycroft would actually come visiting him in the hellhole of a flat he had called home during his worst days.

There was one door left but never opened without permission. There were rules here, rules Sherlock had to obey even though he had built the mind palace himself. Mycroft meant rules. Mycroft meant order. Mycroft meant peace at last.

He knocked at his brother's door and pushed it open before the older Holmes could even answer.

"Can I stay here, Myc?" a little, curly haired boy asked starring wide eyed at his brother. He held a teddy bear in his arms. Not an ordinary one, but one with stitches and patches from an operation Sherlock had recently done to analyse the inside of his little friend.

Mycroft did not even look up from his book. He sat on his bed and a single light illuminated his face, concentration and focus but no caring for his little brother was all Sherlock could deduce.

"Can I come in, please?" The little boy started nagging and tiptoed on his feed, the floor was cold and he was barefoot, had just crawled out of his bed.

"Sherlock, what is it?" Mycroft asked irritated while lowering his book.

A single tear was in his little brothers eyes, he gnawed at his lips. "I had a bad dream," the five year old said. "A veeery bad dream." Now his lower lip quivered and tears threaded to spill over. "I shot someone, Myc. Can I come in?"

"Dreams are only illusions," the older one said his voice steady as always. But none the less he put the book on the nightstand and invitingly lifted his bedcover. The little boy closed the door softly and sprinted toward his brother's bed before Mycroft would rethink his decision. Sherlock snuggled closer even though Mycroft let out an annoyed "Huff".

"Can you read to me, Myc?"

"You would not understand, brother mine. You are too stupid. It's chemistry."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock muttered already falling asleep again.

And so the brother started to read, a low voice like a lullaby flowing around Sherlock's mind. "Sleep, brother mine." Mycroft whispered and softly kissed the fluffy curls, touching Sherlock's cheek once. "Sleep."

Xxxxxxxxxx

And even years later the memory of a brother's soft voice lulled a consulting murderer into a restless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry this took so very long, but I had so much to do and so many other texts to write I ended up with some kind of writers block: I simply never found the right words for this story. But now I am back and the story will be told to its very end. Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: A traitorous task<strong>

_Day three after the shooting_

Mycroft Holmes was a traitor, a traitor to queen and country but never to is brother. He knew what he did could cost his own life should anyone ever find out. It was a little task, but an essential one. It was easy to find one of Sherlock's old friends, buy some cheap stuff clearly mixed with other strange substances and send a package full of gratitude to a man who had done his deed.

It was not the first time Mycroft had ordered to kill but the only time he hoped no one in government and police took a closer look. Mycroft Holmes was a traitor and now a murderer, too, because for the first time the things he did were not for the greater good but for his own purposes – or shall we say his brother's? A man on a mission, but not a rightful one_. Feelings. _Mycroft knew why a man in his position should never let himself be guided by them. It was the first mistake. And more would come.

Sitting at his usual place in the Diogenes Club Mycroft could at least pretend everything was normal. A mask had to be kept in place. But all he wanted was to sleep. Three days now and he had not been to bed once: A short nap in the car, five minutes closing his eyes in between appointments. All the other time he was on the phone, calling in favours, threatening old acquaintances but without success. His brother had overstepped the line and no matter how hard Mycroft pulled there was now way getting Sherlock out of the mess.

He drank the whiskey far to fast and far too much of it as well. It made him feel dizzy. And oh how much he wished to sleep. But this time he feared the nightmares. He had stopped having those when at the age of five he had told himself nightmares were not real but simply stupid. Something his little brother had later never believed him. This beautiful little boy had stood tearfully at his door so often asking to be let in. Everything was lively with Sherlock, even his dreams. No more. Never again.

His phone buzzed.

"_The car is ready!"_

Damn Anthea and her sixth sense. Slightly stumbling Mycroft got up. The next slug he took directly out of the bottle – so not classy at all. Then a second and third one, walking towards the door he felt the walls closing in. A giggle raised from his throat. God he was such a mess.

Anthea said nothing when Mycroft finally crawled into the car and on the back seat. "Home", he ordered with a slurring voice. Another gulp from the bottle finally made him relax a little more. "No", he said, "drive to my parent's house."

"Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?"

"Oh shut up for once, will you?"

Anthea did not answer. Good. Very good. Again the bottle moved towards his mouth. He was so tired, so tired and sad… Shit, shit, shit… His breathing became ragged and he had to close his eyes, oh how he wished he was alone for once, without his lovely (where did that come from?) assistant. He so wanted to fall apart, so desperately wanted to be the weak one this time, no longer the tough politician, no longer… no longer… A second bottle from the car's cabinet was opened shortly afterwards. It was a long drive – never mind.

The car pulled towards his parent's house and came to a stop. Mycroft more crawled than climbed out of the black limousine.

"Do you need me, sir?" Anthea's voice far softer than he remembered it to be. He just brushed her question away with a move of his hand. "Go home", he said. "Just…"

Mycroft nearly fell but Anthea grabbed his arm. "Steady, sir, please." Her pleading voice made him look at her properly; her dark eyes bore traces of worry and fear. "Do you need anything, sir? Anything at all?" Just say it, her tone seemed to implement. But no, no that was clearly the alcohol speaking and not those far too kissable… what? Definitely alcohol.

He only shook his head. "There is nothing you can do. There is nothing anyone can do." Slowly he walked away from her and towards the bench in front of the main door. He heard the car's motor starting behind him, but he did not look back. He sat down on the bench. It was cold and exactly what he needed. He leaned back and took a last gulp from the bottle. Empty already. He had never been a heavy drinker and consuming nearly two bottles of whiskey seemed… stupid. And expensive. Shit. He giggled.

What was the problem again? Right, Sherlock.

Mycroft nestled a crumbled cigarette from his coat pocket. He had started smoking again. He lit it and inhaled deeply like Sherlock had taught him to do. His younger brother. Tssss. Mycroft coughed.

His brother would die, but he would suffer in advance. Whatever Mary had said, whatever steps she had already taken, it would never be enough. Again he saw his brother's face. Slowly it morved into another one, the face of a young man, a computer genius that had died to save his little brother. Mycroft had not been there but the agent had sent a picture to confirm the killing. Mycroft felt sick.

This was not right. Nothing was right anymore.

It took him a moment to realise why he now was bend over and where the foul taste in his mouth originated. He coughed and felt sick again. Vomit dribbled from his chin and he wiped it off with his sleeve not caring that he ruined his custom made suit in the process. Again he retched. A foul mixture of expensive alcohol and cheap gastric juices made him feel worse than before.

"Oh Mikey, what are you doing to yourself again."

"Mother", he whispered full of shame. He knew she always worried about him working too much and too hard. It was not the first time he had driven himself to utter exhaustion until he collapsed. But mostly that had happened at home and not at her doorstep. And never had there been alcohol involved, only ever fatigue and lack of sleep, that made him fall asleep at inconvenient places like his chair or on the sofa but most likely not in his bed.

"Let's get you inside, dear."

"I don't think this… works." He buried his face in his hands. Partly because he was ashamed his emotions had finally gotten the better of him, partly because he felt like vomiting again.

"Oh shut up, Mycroft and get inside. Don't make it more complicated than it already is." She tugged at his sleeve, to pull away his hands from his face. It was a mechanism he had developed when he was a child, when he was no longer able to hide behind a mask he hid behind his hands. And so his mother had developed her own tactics. Even though her knees where lightly rheumatic and hurt in the cold she knelt down in front of him not even caring that her dress came in contact with Mycroft's stomach contents. She took his hands and with soft force pulled them away from his face.

Mycroft closed his eyes. Never show emotions – not even to your mother, he had developed that credo to perfection. But his mother was never easy to get rid of. First she kissed is cold hands and then she grabbed his face. Leaning her forehead against his she whispered his name.

"It was not you fault. Never was. Sherlock is like he is and you can't blame yourself…"

"I don't…"

"Shhhh… it's all right."

And so a traitorous little drop made of salt and water fell from Mycroft's left eye. It was the first tear in 32 years. Just one, but one enough to prove: Even an iceman could suffer.


	9. Chapter 9

Because you asked: Here comes the next chapter. I am so sorry it took me ages to post a new chapter. Normally I only post stories when I have finished writing them. Apparently this one is finished in my head but needs to be brought unto paper – or in this case screen. Hope you enjoy the story nonetheless. Here is one chapter about Mycroft again. More about the Moriarty scheme follows in the next one. I promise not to take that much time again. Actually I am quite in the mood for some proper writing… This chapter has not been proofread yet, so please forgive any mistakes

**Chapter 9: Brother mine**

"_Brother mine. Let me speak to you for a last time. Let me embrace you and give you my heart. Be my keeper one last time. Take it, brother, take my soul. Keep it or share it – as you deem right. Give parts to mother, father, John… Take it brother. You are my keeper."_

_A little curly haired boy stood in the middle of a soft meadow, the sky dark from an approaching storm. The wind played with his hair. He seemed pale, almost dead. Crusted brown blood was on his chest, remembrance of a shot wound that should have killed but did not._

"_Brother mine", the boy whispered again. And finally Mycroft did not only look in the boy's face but on his hands. They were closed around a pulsating object and coated with crimson red blood._

"_Brother mine", the boy said and opened his hands. "Take it", he said and offered his brother a pulsating, bleeding heart._

_Mycroft gasped and stumbled backwards._

"_Myc…" Again this voice, but darker this time, older. Mycroft remembered. His younger brother leaned heavily on him. "What took you so long?" Sherlock could barely walk and there was not much time. "Cake, obviously", Mycroft said laughingly. _

_A grind spread on Sherlock's face, half hidden by a beard and far too long hair. "I could kill for a piece of cake right now", Sherlock said,_

"_You?" Mycroft grinned himself while dragging his brother along the dark, stinking tunnel. Not much time._

"_Sir?" a voice in his earpiece said. "We have covered the entrances, clear to go."_

"_Can you walk, brother dear?" Mycroft asked while Sherlock stumbled along. His beaten body smelled of sweat and urine. His capturers had never let him wash. How disgusting. How embarrassing for his proud little brother. Sherlock was breathing heavily. "Just keep going and don't ask", he mumbled. _

_Finally clear air and light again._

"_Take it brother mine, please take me home." The little boy on the meadow now had started crying, his curls a mess and his face flushed. The heart in his hands beat frantically. _

_Mycroft vomited in front of his feet._

_Everything was white now. White and sterile. A hospital. He did remember. The doctor telling him Sherlock's heard had stopped beating. The panic, the pain, the absolute destruction of his being… but he had survived. Barely. Sherlock might make it, they had said. Might, not will. He was not stable yet, maybe never would be. Seeing him so pale and lonely in his bed. Mycroft started crying._

_Mycroft stepped closer, took Sherlock's hands, kissed them like he had never dared in reality. He touched his brother's soft locks like the time the little boy had had nightmares in his childhood. And suddenly the ghostly man opened his eyes. "Take it", he whispered. And as Mycroft looked down he saw his brothers open chest, a bleeding, beating heart pumping the last bits of life out of Sherlock's body._

_And finally Mycroft screamed._

….

Mycroft Holmes woke with a gasp, still shivering from his dream. His heart stumbled and cold sweat was all over his body. Sherlock… no, please, no, Sherlock.

It took him some time to figure out where he was and what had happened the night before. It was not much what he remembered but what he did, he would rather like to forget. When Mycroft Holmes woke on that morning he could not put a finger on what was worse: The nightmares, the embarrassment or the hangover. Even though his mother had closed the curtains in the night the light was far too bright. He blinked. How late was it?

He had to get up.

But no matter how hard he tried, Mycroft was not able to sit up. His head pounded and he felt dizzy. His breath tasted foul. Mycroft could not remember clearly but he certainly had vomited at some point during the night.

A soft knock on the door forced him to blink again.

"Can I come in?"

Mycroft pretended to be still asleep, eyelids pressed tightly together he focused on his breathing – evenly in and out, deep like the dreamer. But there was no chance with John Watson. The man had clearly lived far too long under the same roof as Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh, come on, don't be a prat Mycroft. I know you are faking to be asleep. How are you feeling?"

He simply grunted.

"That bad, hm?" Mycroft heard footsteps coming closer and then he felt his mattress shift slightly.

Did that man really dare to sit down on the bed he was sleeping in? He was the British Government for god's sake, not some sick toddler.

"What do you want?" Mycroft mumbled. His breath hitched. Even speaking did hurt.

"Let me check on you, ok?"

Mycroft tried to open his eyes and sit up again, but dizziness made him slump back in his cushions. He felt John's hand grab his wrist. Here comes the doctor.

"Your pulse is slightly elevated and you are running a little temperature…"

Mycroft finally managed to open his eyes and stared accusingly at John Watson. Doctor John Watson.

"I am not sick, if you think that, doctor. Just got a hangover." Mycroft stopped speaking in fear of vomiting again. Bile rose in his throat.

John chuckled. "You are worse than your brother. When was the last time you ate, slept or drank anything else than the alcohol you consumed last evening?"

Mycroft just stared. Damn doctors. Damn this doctor. He had to get up again, had to work. There were things to do. And this doctor was only a hindrance.

"Not yesterday, I presume?"

"Tea."

"You had tea?"

"I already said so, do keep up."

John just shook his head. "Don't you two ever again say that you have nothing in common. When did you have tea?"

"Teatime."

"Anything else?"

Mycroft kept quite. When for the sake of Sherlock did he have time for anything like food. Some time during the day he had nearly eaten a complete chocolate bar. This had been his problem early on, during his teenage years and later when he started his government work: Under pressure Mycroft ate. No matter what. Chips, chocolate, cake. He had been fat. Fat and ugly. More than once in his life. After his first indulgences in his teenage years he had started to do sports at university rather excessively and had finally lost his weight. Slender and skinny Mycroft – that was how he liked to see himself. Later when the pressure became too much he had picked up old habits again only to regret it moments later. He would not start that again. He had no eating disorder. Not really. Only a rather bad habit to supress emotional stress with sweets. Cake, as Sherlock liked to point out.

"Mycroft?"

Oh, right, John. He had mentally drifted away.

"No", he finally admitted.

"That was quite stupid, you know. I think you lack nutrition and you are dehydrated, the alcohol only made that worse. I will fetch my kit and put you on an IV bag. That will help."

"John."

"Don't 'John' me." With that he swept out of the room.

So much weakness where he should be strong, Mycroft closed his eyes again. Sherlock. Brother mine. Brother love. How had it come to that? Mycroft had never been an emotional person, unlike his brother. It was not that he had to oppress them, it was simply that he had never come close to anyone to really feel emotionally attached. Yes, he loved his parents. But even during his childhood they had somehow felt like strangers. His mother, this lovingly beautiful creature had a great mind but had given up everything for the sake of her heart's desire. She was just like Sherlock, insanely devoted when it came to the right person. His father had been the one. Once and forever, like a fairy tale.

There had only been one person Mycroft had ever felt close to and that was his brother. When Sherlock had been born he had asked his parents if they could bring him back where he came from. Mycroft had not liked this screaming bundle of terror. But his mother had smilingly refused and instead asked him to hold his brother for the first time. And so he had sat there on the sofa a now quit little boy in his arms. He had never wanted to look properly at this little thing called brother. But his curiosity had gotten the better of him. And finally he had looked into his brother's clear blue eyes and he was lost. Completely and utterly lost. Until this very day. He would never tell Sherlock but he would do anything to keep him safe. Not only surveillance and control. He would kill for him, die for him. And it was good neither Magnussen nor Moriarty had ever fully grasped the deepness of their relationship.

Sherlock was his weakness and this weakness now had hurt the only person Mycroft had ever truly loved and tried to protect.

John was back. He had closed the door softly and now instead of sitting at the edge of the bed he pulled a chair closer to where Mycroft was still resting.

"I have to go to work", Mycroft said, depression weighing him down.

"I know and you can. After this and after you have eaten properly."

Only thinking of food made Mycroft nearly... Doctor Watson gripped his hand. How could a man's hand be so soft and comforting, a soldier's hand nonetheless. A sting signalised that John had started the procedure.

"You could simply admit how much this effects you, Mycroft. You don't have to pretend. Not here. Not with us."

"I am only stressed out, that is all. This mess has added so much more work to my already tight schedule that I simply forgot to eat. No wonder the alcohol got to me." Mycroft stared at the wall.

"I understand… I do", John whispered. "Wait until the IV bag is empty before even trying to get up. Otherwise you'll only collapse. I make sure you'll have something to eat before you go back to whatever you are doing."

"Where are the others?" Fear again gripped Mycroft's heart.

"Mary has taken your father for a walk, he needed to get outside for some time and so she pretended she was afraid to go alone. As if…" He laughed again. It was a painful laugh barely hiding his temper.

"And mother?"

"Gone to see your brother."

Oh no! No…

….

Sherlock was in solitary confinement. But his mother was a Holmes and would always get her way – with bribes, threats or in this case a call to an old university acquaintance. And so here she was in a small interrogation room with no windows and only dim lights. This might have been for the better, because the man she still remembered to be her baby boy looked worse than in his early drug days. Tired and defeated.

"Oh Sherlock." His mother tried to grab Sherlock's hand but the ward's voice boomed through the room: "No touching."

She shivered. Her little boy: A criminal…

"What are you doing here, mother? Is Mycroft to busy to tell me the verdict himself? The death penalty. To busy to accompany his brother to the scaffold…"

"Don't, Sherlock. Don't you dare." Sherlock breathed in to give a snide reply but than he looked into her face and stopped. What did he see? What? The scorning eyes she had always worn when he had done something rather stupid as a child… but there was more. Clearly pain. Fear. But something else. Something…

He hesitated again. Then he looked into her eyes.

"What happened to Myc, mother?"

She smiled softly as Sherlock used the nickname he had given his brother at the age of two.

"Myc..of… My.. Myc…" was the first he had mumbled when he had learned to speak. A name that stuck. Mycroft detested it and enjoyed being called his stupid nickname at the same time. It was a remembrance of the affection Sherlock had once held for his brother. Before he grew up, before he realised an older brother meant someone had already done what he tried to achieve, before he felt the need to revolt only to be different. Never would Sherlock admit that it was still there: The love born out of utter devotion to an older brother.

"He is not well, Sherlock. You should know that. He had worked too much again to make things better. And yesterday he came home drunk."

"Mycroft never drinks."

"Yesterday he did."

_It will break my heart…_

_It will break my heart…_

"What can I do?" he whispered. This time he did not look at his mother. "What can I do now?"

"Stay alive. Only stay alive, Sherlock. Please."

He heard his mother crying softly and for a second longed to touch her.

"Losing one boy is terrible, Sherlock. But all your children? It will break us apart, me and your father."

"Mother, please don't be dramatic." What should have sounded spiteful only came out weak and empty.

"If you die because of this, so will he. He might pretend to be strong, but he is not. He… Promise, Sherlock."

"I can't. You know it would be a lie."

He now looked up at her and his sad smile even reached his eyes. She smiled back. "Can we not at least pretend?"

A teardrop rolled down her cheek.

"Can we not pretend until… until…"

And finally Sherlock nodded. For her sake. For Mycroft's.

"I will tell him, ok?"

And again with a movement of his head he signalled his consent.

"You will stay alive?"

"Yes."

"I will tell him", she said again even though both of them knew it was a lie none of them believed. Least of all Mycroft.


	10. Chapter 10

_After rather long holidays without any Internet access I am finally back. Sorry it took me so long – again!_

**Chapter 10: Love is a chemical defect**

"He promised it, Mycroft. He will not mess this up any further. He told your mother."

Mycroft snorted "He would tell mother everything she wants to hear but at least she knows we are all only pretending."

"Mycroft, do not speak like that."

"There is no other way of speaking, father. But if it makes you happy... happier I will pretend I believe my brother's silly lies."

It was later in the evening and against his better judgement Mycroft was still at his parent's house. Stay out of the line of fire, Anthea had told him. Only for a few days until everyone has calmed down. None the less he had been on the phone all day, confirming appointments, threatening employees to shut up, stopping the police from further investigations until he had any idea how to sort this out. It was a risky step, but it would buy his brother time. Only a few days, maybe a month. But what was even more important: It would buy Mary time to do whatever she needed to do. Part of him desperately wanted to know what she was up to, the other, the rational one, was aware better not to interfere. He had risked enough already, any step further could rob him of the last bit of influence he still held. His influence was everything that kept his brother from certain death.

"Mycroft?"

"I beg your pardon, father. I was thinking."

They both sat in the living room in front of the fire, the Christmas decoration still a fateful reminder of a few happy hours. He never had liked Christmas. Too much fuss, too much happy, peaceful tralalala. These overwhelming declarations of love in many cases were only well placed lies to keep families – long broken apart – stable a little longer. Not with his parents. Not with his family. Perhaps as a little child he had enjoyed it, this Christmas thing, but not since Sherlock had been born. Christmas had always been too much: The noise, the smell, too many people and this daft singing of Christmas carols... never ever would he admit that since he could remember he had been afraid of Santa Clause. He still thought him to be a creepy old man. Sometimes he began to think he was like a twisted Father Christmas himself: Solemn and well mannered to the outside – without this creepy smile – but dark and frightening on the inside.

But this year, this year... after all these terrible ups and downs... after everything... he had finally felt nearly at ease for once. For once.

How careless. How utterly careless. How had he not seen? All this scheming, all this planning... he should have seen.

Love is a chemical defect... the last months of Sherlock's undercover operation had brought the brothers closer than they had been for a very long time. After all their brotherly quarrels they had finally come to an understanding. Working together was more important than their little feuds and mind games. It had not changed much after Sherlock's miracle comeback from the land of the dead. They spoke far more often and with less vigour, fewer snide remarks. The drugs had nearly been a turning point, a blow to brotherly affection. But then Sherlock had been shot. And the world stood still. Like now. Like always when Sherlock...

Mycroft bit his lip. He should have stopped this nonsense far earlier, he should have stopped this silly attachment his brother had formed for the doctor. Not that John was a bad choice for a friend – the contrary – but affection had made his brother lose it. How careless. How stupid. Why had Sherlock not seen what had been right in front of his own eyes: There was no chance to beat Magnussen without causing harm. That is why Mycroft had never stood up against him even as Magnussen started to play with politicians and power. Mycroft had waited. So long. He had tried to lure him with false safety, carefully laid out trap after trap. One day Magnussen would have stumbled and all his well collected information would have been useless.

But Sherlock... God, what an idiot! Not his brother, he himself. He knew that Magnussen had always seen him as what he was: the most dangerous enemy anyone could make. But both men had made a truce: As long as Magnussen accepted certain boundaries, Mycroft would not make a move against him. Even when investigations were made against Magnussen, Mycroft had held certain information back. He had always feared what Magnussen might otherwise reveal about England's upper class. A devastating blow to society.

But Mycroft should have realised that it all had been a lie, a far too dangerous game for anyone to play. Magnussen had spun his web without Mycroft realizing until it was too late and Sherlock trapped.

It had never been a move against Mary Morstan, never against John Watson or Sherlock Holmes. It had been Mycroft Magnussen had been after. Play the little brother, get the mighty one.

Mycroft rubbed his temples, he still had headaches from last night's stunt and thinking did not make it better. How long had he been sitting here?

It was dark already and sometime during his thinking his father had left, he could now hear his parents softly speaking in the kitchen, something was roasting in the oven. Food had always been a comforter for parts of the family. Mycroft ate too many sweets when under pressure and his mother always fled to the kitchen to clear her mind. There had always been extraordinary nice food in this house during their childhood – no wonder Sherlock had an aversion to anything else that tasted not according to the standards he had learned to love at home. Apart from Chinese take away food Sherlock seemed to be so fond of nowadays.

His telephone rang. Tired of the constant interruptions of his life he fished it from his breast pocket.

"Yes."

"Sir, you wanted me to secretly track Mrs. Watson's move."

"Yes, Anthea. What about it?"

"She visited a certain individual we have in our database, a hacker and computer specialist with some involvement in the Moriarty drug cartel. Most likely only as a customer, but since he also has a record for cybercrime... do you want me to send you the file."

"Yes, but use a secure channel. I do not want anyone to know I am involved in any investigation at the moment. It can only harm Sherlock's already bad reputation if Mrs. Watson has contact to criminal circles."

"Of course, sir. Anything else?

"No."

"Sir?"

"I said: No. And stop sounding so anxious, it is not necessary. I am fine."

"Sure, sir."

He disconnected without saying goodbye. How rude.

Only minutes later he received the file on his phone. His computer had been confiscated for a security check. Not that he kept vital information on it. He had a mind palace of his own after all.

There was not much in the file, but enough to know in which direction Mrs. Watson was heading right now. And if Anthea could track her so easily who else could? If he figured out in minutes it could mean others would come to the same conclusion even if far later.

This was dangerous.

Mycroft had made many decisions in his life that might seem cruel to others. He had made people spy on each other, he had kept silent when others ordered torture, once did so himself. Hell yes, he had ordered to kill. But always to protect the country, always according to certain secret rules and always after long discussion in the highest circles of government. He had manipulated people to do what he thought right. But never, never, to fulfil his own needs or for his own ambitions. Always for others.

He could try to claim he did the same now. To save his brother. But it was a selfish thing to do none the less. Caring is not an advantage. Love is a chemical defect...

Two hours after Anthea's call an agent got new orders from highest circles never knowing who his mysterious employer was. Two hours after Anthea's call Mycroft ordered the murder of one Herbert Willcox – computer freak and minor thug.


	11. Chapter 11

_First I wanted to post a short intermezzo instead of this chapter. But continuing with Mycroft's story before coming back to Mary's scheme just felt right. _

_I have been thinking a lot about Mycroft's true character and at some point a question formed in my mind. A big "What if?" What if not Sherlock was the one with social and emotional problems but Mycroft? What if the Mycroft we all know is the result of a long fight against his own weakness? I wanted, no I needed to give my story a slightly different twist to explain the dynamics between the two brothers. I would love to know what you think about this._

**Chapter 12: Icemen can melt**

There were many things people did not know about Mycroft Holmes. He had a great fondness for truffle chocolate topped with a strong espresso, he secretly did two hours workout nearly every day, he never slept naked and had an aversion against anything else than cotton sheets. He only wore tailored clothes even his socks were handmade and according to his wishes. His house was always clean and tidy but he liked wild gardens where flowers grew even at inconvenient places like the old stone table once used to balance a book – when Mycroft still had time at hand to read. Reading was another of his greatest pleasures. He read rather fast, more sucking in the letters than chewing and tasting them as they deserved. But if he liked a book he always read it a second time, storing words and sentences in his head, memorizing everything for later use. When he could not fall asleep or when he was bored in a meeting, he told himself stories. It was a good thing that he never wore a face but always a mask.

Some things had become known to his personal assistant, like the way he drank his tea or that he always read files in a certain order. Necessary things like where to put what on his desk, Mycroft would even comment on a wrongly placed pen.

This habit became known: Never mess up Mycroft's personal space. But it did fit the air Mycroft always gave himself. Always tidy, always neat, always in control...

Mycroft had buried his secrets rather deeply, so most times he did not even remember them himself.

A week had gone by since Mycroft had last seen his brother; they had moved him to a more comfortable cell. Mycroft had insisted on that and risked another fight with the prime minister. Sherlock looked more like himself apart from the fact he was making a headstand when Mycroft stepped into the confined space.

"Don't you have anything better to do than annoying me with your presence?" Sherlock's voice had become softer and less strain. He glided back into a normal position, brushing his messy hair back with his left hand.

"I have come to discuss your options", Mycroft said, his voice controlled like always when doing business. Only this time it was his brother. Mycroft stared unto the files in his hand not daring to look into his brother's eyes. The last days had shaken him to the core and if anyone could detect it, it was his little brother. Mycroft pushed the chair back from the small table; he slipped out of his jacket and placed it neatly on the back. He gestured Sherlock to sit down on what they in prison called a bed. An uncomfortable nightmare for a light sleeper like Mycroft that was certain. Then Mycroft sat down on the chair.

"The government has made quite clear that they neither want a process that would lead to discussions in the press, nor would they let you go without a verdict. So..." Mycroft gulped and absentmindedly scratched at his wrists. "So there is only one option left."

"The mission to the East." Sherlock said it as a matter of fact, as if he was not bothered even the slightest. Mycroft knew that was not the case.

"Yes."

There were no words left to say. Other brothers would have cried, would have touched, perhaps even held each other. Not so these two: Mycroft stared on the ground, the finger nails of his right hand buried deep into the skin of his left hand. Sherlock did not move.

"Mycroft."

"I will try to keep you safe."

"Mycroft." This time Sherlock's voice was louder and more firm.

"Mycroft, stop!" And suddenly Sherlock's hands closed around Mycroft's wrists. "Stop doing this."

Later Mycroft could not tell who was more shocked to see the little red dots soaking through his shirt. He or Sherlock. A bloody scratch was visible under the right one of his cufflinks. Mycroft's hands shook.

"Mycroft, no matter what: You are still in control. Do you understand?"

"How can I be?" It was the first time in ages Mycroft betrayed himself in displaying signs of weakness.

Oh, everyone had always assumed that he was the stronger one of the brothers: Emotionally unattached, clear minded, bright future ahead, in control of his own life, no drug or health problems. Everyone still assumed that Mycroft was the one who kept Sherlock grounded while it had always been the other way round. Truth be told: Sherlock had not been an easy child, always full of mischief, experimenting on things that were clearly not safe for children, running around, bouncing like a ball, never to shut up. But he was a lovely child that made his parents no problems at all as long as he could roam the fields and feel free. The problems came later when a child used to freedom had to learn there where rules adults had to stick to. Drugs were only one form of protest he took during his teenage years. A bad habit that turned dangerous when he began to mimic his older brother, tried to hide emotions, tried never to become attached. Sherlock clearly was not a person who was able to do something like that.

But no matter what, Sherlock had always been a joy for his parents. Not him but Mycroft had been the problem child, the one they had always feared would fail in life and be lost in darkness. Mycroft the little boy who could not cope with what the world threw towards him.

The first two years his problems had not been evident, he had cried rather a lot but many children did. But then his parents ever so often found him hiding: under beds, tables chairs, sometimes behind a curtain. Often he had his eyes firmly shut, his hands pressed on his ears and sometimes he was humming a tune to himself while tears streamed down his face. They had doctors take a look at him. But no one could explain. Until his parents found the explanation themselves: his eyes saw too much, his ears heard too much and every taste and smell seemed to overwhelm the child, his brain was not able to comprehend the massive amount of information it gathered. As little as he was he had not yet been able to figure out how to store and sort things in his head. And so his body had ruled his brain, making him a frightened little creature. This inside in their little boy's psyche changed everything, because as clever as his parents were they gave all the control to Mycroft. He decided when things became too much, when it was time to retreat, when there was no option left but shun everyone and close the door. This solved Mycroft's biggest problems but created another one. Since that day Mycroft needed to be in control of everything.

But when control was everything, losing it could only mean one thing: Under the right circumstances icemen will melt. Put under pressure he might also break. Into tiny, little pieces.

"You are not losing control, Mycroft." Sherlock spoke very softly now, the way he only sometimes did and only with mother and John. Never with Mycroft. Not since their childhood days.

Having control over his life, putting things into a certain order had helped little Mycroft to gain the capability to survive everyday life. Only sometimes when everything became too much he did hide – even after his brother was born. Their parents had feared that Mycroft would fall back into the dark hole his early childhood had been when his mother became pregnant again. They had waited very long with that even though they had always wanted a second child. But there was Mycroft and Mycroft was... different.

But all their fear had been without reason because for Mycroft the birth of his little brother was a turning point. He no longer was the most vulnerable part of the family. He had someone to care for. For Sherlock this became more than annoying later in his life when his older brother could not refrain from the old habit to look after him even though Sherlock now was an adult.

In some ways Mycroft had been the perfect older brother, educating his younger brother, teaching him what he had learned, loving him. And in other ways he was the worst, always proving he was better, wiser, faster in thinking – simply older and more reasonable. He had no sense at all for childhood games like climbing trees or running through the meadows. He read a lot in these days and was as fond of experiments as Sherlock became far later. And sometimes he found delight in frightening his little brother with creepy stories about supernatural forces that would demolish unnerving little brothers. And unnerving Sherlock could become. A force of nature – as the family put it.

Little Mycroft became somewhat of a learned man. Finally in a book about monks' life in the middle ages he found the tale how they memorised their prayers, remembering every line as a step on their long way from their dormitory to church. Then he found other books about memorising techniques and how the human brain could be trained. And this was what finally made him normal. A beautiful garden laid out after exact plans and a library in its middle, vaults and boxes to store away feelings – they had always made him worse – and a place for every memory he might ever need again. Later he taught Sherlock to do the same, but where Mycroft was practical and simple, Sherlock was boasting as always. His mind palace. How typical.

Mycroft's skin was still burning, red marks had formed on his skin, an itchy rash. He longed to scratch it but Sherlock had his hands tightly in his grip and for a moment Mycroft wondered why no guard came rushing to safe him. Then he remembered he had ordered them to leave. He still held some power after all... still...

"You are not losing it, are you?"

The rash had become a problem in his teenage years when Mycroft again had had an anxiety attack, certainly due to the changes in his body and teenage hormones cursing through his system, but also because he had put too much pressure on himself. He had fallen in love once and in his attempt to be more normal than anyone else he had failed extraordinarily. He had lost control and scratched his body until he had bled from every pore. Healing balm for his skin and summer holidays had cured him.

He had never ever lost it again. He became the perfect machine, the walking computer everyone knew him to be. Only his brother and parents sometimes looked behind his polished facade.

"Mycroft?"

"No, I am not losing it. I am... I am still in control. I think." Back to telling lie after lie again, like the time when both became adults and Sherlock claimed his freedom. Mycroft had pretended not to look out for him and Sherlock had pretended not to care in the slightest for his brother. Quarrels and feuds even John had to witness years later were the result.

"Ok." Sherlock was not fooled but for Mycroft's sake pretended to be. There was a time for everything and this was not the one for discussions.

"How long do we have? When will you send me away, brother mine?"

"Not decided yet, maybe a month."

"So enough time to come up with a scheme." Sherlock had a mischievous gleam in his eyes like the little pirate boy.

"Sherlock!"

They were on secure terrain again: Sherlock pretending to be the god of chaos and Mycroft that of order. Like always: Pretending but not believing.

That evening after Mycroft had left for the first time since his imprisonment Sherlock asked if he was allowed to make a call. There were things his mother needed to know. And Mycroft losing control was certainly one of them.


	12. Chapter 12

_And again it took me ages..._

**Chapter 12: Of honey bees and wasps**

Restless. For days now Mary had felt this all familiar itchiness that came from doing nothing. She had waited hour after hour, spoken with John, spoken with Sherlock's parents, never really with Mycroft. It was better that it seemed they did not get along well – and apparently this was not very far from the truth.

Now finally John had decided that it was time to go back to London, he had to inform Mrs. Hudson, Molly and perhaps even Lestrade that Sherlock might never come back. This time for real. John held himself together like a true soldier. He spoke less, his muscles were tense, his lips often pressed tightly together. It bothered him what he had seen Sherlock do and above that which consequences the detective's actions held. Prison. Or worse.

A day ago Mycroft had made clear there was no way out. The prime minister and the cabinet had not been moved – neither by pleas nor reason. They could not cover Sherlock's actions completely and feared to risk their own reputation and career to do so. No public trial, they had agreed to that. What would come instead still lay in the dark.

There had been a terrible row the day before. Mycroft and John. For a few seconds Mary had been sure John would hit Mycroft and crush his nose. John was furious beyond reason. "I will do nothing for my brother", Mycroft had declared at the breakfast table before leaving for London. "He brought this upon himself and I will not risk my life and that of my parents for a brother who is clearly out of his mind and a ruthless killer." Mycroft's face had been like stone and even a former assassin with a grasp what went on in people's mind could not read him. But a look at his parents said everything. There was this sad smile on his mother's face and the father's stiff nod. It was the gesture of parents who knew their son told a lie only to be able to keep going. Mycroft was on the verge of breaking.

But John did not see. Did not observe. And so they had packed their bags with a soft excuse to their lovely hosts. And then Mary had told John she would not come to London with him. He had been perplex and confused. But then she said she had to visit a person John clearly had not on his list, a person far more involved in this mess than Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.

"Mary, god you are huge."

Mary's smile was stiff as was her hug when embracing her former not so real friend.

"I hope you don't mind that I drop in on such a short notice. I visited friends and... I am sorry about what happened, you know. I really had no idea..."

"It doesn't really matter, you know. Believe me I am far better off now." Janine stepped aside from her doorstep to let Mary in. They had not spoken for a rather long time. Not since they had met in hospital where Janine had accused her to be part of Sherlock's plot. After that Mary never had dared to phone her – Janine had no idea how involved Mary really had been in all this.

"Do you like a coffee... mind me, do you even still drink coffee?" Janine's cottage was not big, but had the lovely, modern charm old buildings could have when someone with care and an understanding for interior design put some work into it. Janine certainly had a hand for it.

"No, thank you", Mary said while stepping into the living room. "Do you mind, if I take a seat? My legs are a mess..."

Janine, who had gone to the kitchen to fetch herself a coffee, now let herself drop on the nearby sofa and motioned Mary to do the same. She looked good, better even than before she had left London. Saying something like that about a natural beauty like Janine really meant a lot. She was glowing, her cheeks rosy and her skin had clearly seen some winter sun.

"I really enjoy being out of town. Never thought I would, but this suits me. I plan to grow my own vegetable in summer... me and digging in the mud. Who would have thought that", Janine laughed. But she became sober an instant later. "But I have missed you, Mary. You should have called... no I should have called after the nasty things I said to you in hospital. I am sorry."

Mary smiled one of her fake smiles. "Don't be. I am not angry, I know I should have warned you that Sherlock was quite a complicated person..."

"Oh, you could definitely say that." Again Janine giggled. Her contempt and happiness seemed unfair compared to the itchiness and still lingering despair Mary felt inside. Her life was on the brink of breaking apart – again! And no matter what she would do now, it would never feel right again. Never since she had made one bad choice as a teenage girl, a choice that had let her become the cruel person she was now. She used people. Even those she did like. And what she was about to do to sweet Janine was not only unfair but also ensured that Janine from now on would always be under suspicion. Mycroft's secret service already had an eye on her because of her involvement with her former boss, but now... If anyone would find out... But no: No matter how sweet a honeybee Janine might seem to be, she could sting like a wasp. Like Mary. Hard and fast and still be unchanged. So unlike the honeybee who would die in the attempt to protect her people.

"Mary, you all right? You look pale? Is anything the matter? Is this why you have come?" Janine was far more observant than anyone gave her credit for, a bitter lesson learned from being a madman's PA.

"Actually there is something I have to tell you about Sherlock..."

Janine groaned. "What has he done now? God this manchild really attracts trouble." Janine's voice still held some fondness. So Sherlock had been right that Janine was not really heartbroken and angry, that she had sold her wrath together with the story about their fictional sexual encounters.

Mary took a deep breath. "You can't tell anyone", she said. "If you do he dies. They still try to keep this covered."

"Who and what?"

"Government officials."

"Mike?"

Mary laughed. No one called Mycroft Mike but Janine and sometimes his mother. But the laugh was a bitter one. "He and others. But what he did, Janine, what he did to protect me, John and the baby. What he did to save his brother and in parts even you..."

Janine licked her lips, clearly nervous because that was the message Mary transmitted.

"I don't know how to say that..." Of course Mary knew, but it was easier to pretend that news like these shocked her as much as anyone else. It had become part of her new life. Pretend and trying to care. Something she had to forget about as an assassin: Caring.

"What is it Mary?"

"Magnussen is dead. Sherlock shot him."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Miles away in his London office Mycroft sat brooding. His neck and his shoulders hurt, the muscles had become tight, the stress even affected his vision. He felt faint. The warm tea could no longer warm his freezing body. Tired, all he was now was tired. How telling. He did remember Sherlock's snide remark. How telling you could not handle a broken heart. How wrong Sherlock had been. He had handled it quite well for all those years.

Once in his lifetime he had felt this piercing pain of loss and afterwards had put together shards and pieces that had once formed his character – the Sisyphus work took month to complete and still there were tiny little pieces missing where once he had felt things. Caring. Love. Fear. Pain. Everything. He was like a dark fairy tale wizard. Powerful but cold since a spell gone wrong had first torn his beating heart apart and then turned it into ice.

But the boxes in his mind had started to rattle again. And tiny little bits of so much feared feelings had started to creep out of dark corners. Mycroft needed all his powers to keep them in check.

He had seen the worried look in his mother's eyes. Clearly Sherlock had called her. But Mycroft had shut her out, pushed her away when she tried to touch him and look at his now well covered arms. He had said his farewell and had headed to London high speed. He needed time to think. Think.

Again he scratched at his arm. This time he did not draw blood. His hands were covered in thick woollen gloves. It was the only way to protect him from scratching away the skin from his arms and legs, cutting with sharp nails deep into his own flesh. Mycroft took a deep breath. Think, think.

Two hours later Anthea found him deep asleep in his chair. His head rested on his arms and table and he was snoring softly. No matter how hard she tried not to, Anthea had to smile. Mycroft would hurt terribly later, but at least he had finally found some rest. Even if it was in the most uncomfortable position one could imagine.

xxxxxxxx

"Sherlock has shot Magnussen and now I need your help", Mary said and set in motion another part of her plan.


	13. Chapter 13

_Sorry this is taking me so long. I am currently writing my PhD thesis and that takes a lot of my time and energy. But those of you begging me to update: Thank you for making me want to continue writing. I will try better in future. Maybe I can work out a schedule that allows me to publish more regularly... I have got so many ideas - especially for Mycroft. Here is one._

_What I am currently missing is a Beta-Reader who corrects grammar and spelling mistakes – if anyone is interested to help out: Please write a message._

**Chapter 13 Intermezzo or: Will you remember me when I am gone?**

_Three month after the shooting_

The one thing Mycroft had been afraid of since being a little child was death. In all its forms – slow and painful or too fast for those dying to even realize what was happening. Death was everywhere – its smell of decay, the sound of a last breath drawn, the moan of an old woman dying of age and the loud wailing of a mother whose little girl had been run over by a car on the main road. Death had been everywhere and it had terrified little and grown-up Mycroft.

When he had been two years old Mycroft had found a little bird in the garden, silent and motionless. It must have flown against the kitchen window, Mycroft reckoned, and broken its skull. Mycroft first watched it, then touched it not believing such a tiny, beautiful thing could be dead. Mycroft knew the word but had never understood: Death! And then he smelled it. Rotten. Foul. The smell lingered on even days after Mycroft and his mother had buried the little bird under a rosebush. It had left a mark on his mind and it had made him feel rotten as well. Dead on the inside. And so he had hit under his bed, crying for hours and no one was ever able to comfort him.

The second thing he had to realise was that taking a last breath meant exactly that. Breathing one's last. One moment the cat breathed in and out, the other it fell silent. Mycroft had not meant to throttle it, but he had held it so close to his heart and kissed his head, the cat suddenly failed to breathe. Mycroft was five that year and the cat as much an infant as he was. This time he did not hide under the bed. This time he wailed so loud, his mother believed him to be terribly hurt. And hurt he was.

The third time death came, Mycroft had already found some peace, a peace that was called Sherlock. This third time death took someone close. Sherlock would never remember his grandmother, the lady smelling of oranges, vanilla shortbread and lavender. A comforting smell that for Mycroft had always meant home. Even years later he would draw comfort in remembering how his grandmother's warm embrace had smelled, a cocoon made of summer breeze and old lady. Mother had said "no", father had said "better not" but Mycroft had thrown a tantrum until he was allowed to see his beloved grandma one last time. But no comfort was to be found with her any longer. Only moans of pain that frightened Mycroft more than he was able to tell. They still haunted him in his darkest dreams like his grandmothers smile did when he dreamt of peace and solitude.

The fourth time death came, Mycroft had nearly grown into man, a man-boy in his late teens. He knew he should not have borrowed his roommate's car. Not after working such late hours, not after sleeping less and less. But Sherlock had fallen ill and when anything mattered to young Mycroft it was his brother's wellbeing. And so late in the night he took the car and drove off. Home. It was morning when fate gave his last big blow to make a terrified boy crumble. Later Mycroft would never be able to remember. Not how – only for a second – he had closed his eyes, then the movement he saw in the corner of his left eye. A loud crash cursing the bright morning. Screeching brakes. His memory was broken into shards, years later still he could only glimpse bits of what had happened. But three things he did remember: First he saw the car's broken front window, like a spider's web entangling him in guilt. Then there was the scream. Full of horror, full of pain. The third thing he saw he would later try to delete. But it came back haunting him, waking him up at night, making him sick. He had lost many pounds after "the incident", as mother and father referred to it. He could no longer keep any food down. All he saw was what he had seen in the rear view mirror: A little body in a bright yellow dress, like a flower grown on asphalt. Around her head there was a crown of red, thick liquid, a halo of despair. Her hands still clutched a teddy bear. She would never touch anything ever again.

Maybe it was his fear of death that had made Mycroft who he had become. A servant to the state, a servant who ruled to keep things in order, to make a country safe. To prevent death. Unlike his brother he later never developed a morbid fascination with violent deaths. He was no longer afraid to see people getting killed: Sometimes killing the bad ones saved those in need of protection. Sometimes an innocent got killed and for a moment that tore at Mycroft's heart. But he could forget. Because it was for the greater good.

Until the moment he ordered a man to be killed to safe is brother.

Until the moment he made sure another would suffer the same fate, an innocent man whose only fault had been to know a certain Janine, who had later introduced him to a highly pregnant woman in need for help. Only a puzzle piece but too valuable to be left alive after the deed was done. This time Mycroft took the gun himself. He shot a man in his sleep. And barely, only barely he survived himself. A gun on his temple, then he remembered how easy it was to fail with shaking hands. A gun in his mouth. The smell was disgusting, a taste he now noted to be linked to death as well. Metal and traces of powder. He had become a murderer, just like his little brother. A family of killers – how had it come so far? How could he let himself live without proper punishment?

But the problem was: He did not want to die. Never had. After all these years imagining and fearing how death might come to him, he had never envisioned suicide. Not once. And so in the end he had put down the gun. After cleaning all traces he had left, he had buried it where no one would ever find it. But the one thing he could not bury was his guilt. His fear. His despair. And the underlying wish that somehow it would all end.

So when finally – on that fateful day in his office – he realised he was dying, that his heart was failing, for the first time he did not shy away from death but embraced it like a long lost friend. He smiled when finally everything came together. The smell of decay he remembered so well, a painful moan – this time from his own mouth, a terminal breath taken, and finally... finally a loud wailing. Not of a mother, but that of a younger brother realising his detested, beloved brother was about to die. "Mycroft!" And after that: Nothing more.


	14. Chapter 14

_Dear readers, I know it has again been some time and the last chapter was a little bit confusing. I am on holidays now and finally have some time to finish the (last) big chapter I have been working on for quite some time now. Now I have finally achieved what I wanted: to solve the riddle and open up a new story line. I cannot promise I will update more often. Instead I will try to write longer chapters – like this one. I hope you enjoy it. Love, Esta_

**Chapter 14 : Let's play murder – or: A riddle is solved**

_**Three month after the shooting – two days after Mycroft's heart attack**_

The second time Mycroft woke he felt too dizzy to realize he had company again. Only mother's soft touch lingered on his skin when he fell asleep again. Mycroft hated being sick it always brought back bad memories. Memories of childhood nightmares and fears of death. At least he now realized that dying was not really an option. His heart was beating again, not really strong, but strong enough to survive. Whispered voices lulled Mycroft back into sleep.

The third time he awoke no one was around. It was in the middle of the night and the darkness was a soft, welcoming cover. Mycroft embraced it and cuddled back into his cushion. He had not felt that tired in years.

The fourth time finally she had come. Mary Watson. Many things needed to be said, but only two words were needed to know they had a problem. "Sherlock knows", Mary said.

"Everything now?" Mycroft had known that Sherlock had guessed but not to what extend.

"Yes… he knows about what I did and that you covered my tracks. He knows that you sent one of your agents to kill that junkie hacker. And he knows you shot a man to save his life."

His heart flipped. Literally. The heart monitor gave a warning sound.

"Don't", he said. Mycroft closed his eyes.

_**Two month ago…**_

"_What are you doing in my house", Steven Miller's face was glowing red, he tightened the grip on the fireplace poker he had grabbed when entering the living room. The man in the bespoke, dark suit seemed not to be moved by his brutish display. A smile played on his lips._

"_I know what you did, Steven. I know what you got for it. What I don't know is why you are still here." The man moved towards the window, touched the curtains with his gloved hand and looked outside. "Was it not part of the plan, that you would leave this country immediately after what you did?"_

_Steven stepped from one foot to another. "I don't know what you are talking about, mister. And if I did, it's still none of your business. So: FUCK OFF!" Steven stepped closer towards the arrogant man. Clearly private school education, fancy upbringing. That was all Steven saw, but not the danger lurking beyond the surface._

"_You gained quite a lot of money for slipping a message into our television cable network. Even considering you paid a vast amount of money to your friends who hacked the BBC computers to make sure the message was broadcasted over satellite as well."_

_Steven took another step towards the arrogant man. Now he was only two arms length away, near enough to strike him with the heavy iron he had in his hand. _

"_Consider me a friend."_

"_You are no friend of mine." Steven was furious now. And a drunken, frightened and furious man was a dangerous man, especially if he had nothing to loose._

"_Then consider me as someone who gives you a friendly warning. Only once: Leave this town, leave this island and run as far as you can… before someone comes to get you."_

_Steven roared, raised the poker and… stopped midway. The man suddenly had a gun in his hand. And a calculating, cold and dangerous man with a gun was never someone to play with. Especially not when you where only a minor criminal believing to be born to greatness. A new Al Capone, a new Moriarty. That was the true reason he had played along. Not the money, but the fame. _

"_Hey, man…" he said. "I didn't mean it that way, man…" He stepped closer, forgetting he still held the poker n his hand, raised to strike._

_Steven could not hear the shot and so he took another step forwards, in slow motion, millimetre after millimetre… and collapsed. The shot had pierced his lung but did not kill him. He fell and lost consciousness rather fast. The second shot was harder for the man now becoming a killer. The first he could have blamed on being threatened. The second was a calculated move. A shot in the head. Like killing a sleeping man in his bed. That was how he would always remember it later. I killed a man in his sleep. A daydreamer not knowing what – who – might come for him._

_**Three month after the shooting – two days after Mycroft's heart attack**_

"I never intended to shoot him. But the man was foolish, the police was hard on his heals and all he did was spending money that had come from nowhere. It was only a matter of time… Foolish as I was I thought I might threaten him enough to leave the country. But there was no…"

Mycroft was sweating and his hand shaking. His throat had become dry from talking. The monitor was beeping, sometimes too fast, sometimes too but never as it should. He was not out of danger yet.

"…no reasoning with him."

Mary took a glass of water from the nightstand and held it in front of Mycroft's lips. "Don't…", he said.

"You know, I am not only an assassin but also a nurse, do you?" She raised her left eyebrow mockingly.

Mycroft swallowed dry. He longed for water and so he gave in. She held the glass while he drank, he could not hold it himself. Talking left him weak and shivering. As Mary touched his shoulder he leaned in, searching for comfort he could not find. They had become close out of pure necessity. How much only a few months could change two people's relationships: From indifference to pure hatred, from a peace treaty to something that came close to an understanding.

"You are tired", she said. "We should stop talking."

"No", his voice was firm again, even though he felt exactly like she said.

"Mycroft…"

"Consider it a debrief." His voice was that of someone used to be in command. But Mary no longer felt threatened by the man she shared so many secrets with they could so easily be each other's doom. A question was burning in her mind.

"So: What did Janine do… after she heard of his death? After all Steven had been more than only one of her acquaintances. She must have known it had something to do with what I had asked her. The day I came to beg her help. I never dared to contact her afterwards, but you… I know you went to see her. Did you threaten her as well?"

"Janine was never a threat, Mrs. Watson. So why should I threaten her? I might have given her a warning of what may come, but nothing more. Even when she sold her story about my brother to the newspapers she had not been anything close to a threat. She could have told the paper's many bad things about my brother. Many things that would have harmed his reputation forever. His drug addiction. The way he sometimes handles cases. Human organs in the fridge. Things that would make every criminal proud: Hacking, theft, burglary – even though only to secure evidence, I have to admit… but no, she did nothing like that. Instead she sold them lies about sexual encounters that have never happened. She took her revenge – and rightfully so – but still was very protective. I never needed to interfere with her… she still likes him… why is a puzzle I will never solve."

"So she was never in danger?" Mary dared to breathe again. "Even though I used her for my schemes? That is good to know because lately I have wondered if the fact I contacted her will in the end be her death sentence… "

"I will not be the judge making that verdict", Mycroft thought. "But there always might be others…"

_**Three month ago…**_

"_Do you still have contact to that ex-boyfriend of yours working for the cable network?" _

_Janine groaned "Thank you for reminding me of that asshole, Mary. It seems I have never been good in choosing a decent boyfriend… at least Sherlock was nice as long as he needed me." Funnily enough there was no bitterness in Janine's voice. She rather seemed to speak Sherlock's name with a fondness not to expect from someone who had been treated as ill as she had been. It gave Mary courage to continue._

"_I need to contact him. Please don't ask why…"_

"_Why?" Typically Janine._

"_What I tell you has to stay between us. It is the only way to protect you… no stop… don't fret, Janine. This is not a threat but the truth…"_

_Janine's eyes grew wide while listening what her former friend had to tell._

"_What Sherlock did – from the very beginning – was to protect his brother… and me. There was another person involved – high-ranking in the British government – who had hired Sherlock to retrieve some information from Magnussen But that would have never let to Sherlock killing the man. But your former employer had also collected things about Mycroft, personal things no one can know about or he will be dead. And he had started investigating my life when he realised I would be connected to the Holmes family through John. My true name is not Mary. I am in a witness protection scheme I cannot tell you anything about. But Magnussen found out and he… he threatened to publish it…"_

"_Oh my…" Janine was pale. "I knew he was a bad man, but most times he treated me well enough not to suspect something like that… I am so sorry, Mary."_

"_Sherlock and John went to retrieve the information, the files… but there were none. It was all in Magnussen's head and Sherlock… I think he freaked out." It was not even a lie Mary was telling, but neither the truth. Perhaps the parts about Sherlock were, but not those about her own life._

"_Sherlock had given up everything for the British government he went into hiding for months, he was treated like shit…"_

"_He was tortured, I saw the scars, no matter how hard he tried to hide them. We might not have slept with each other, but we slept in the same bed more than once", Janine added._

_Mary nodded. "But now, no one stands up for him. No one will help him. They will send him on a secret mission that will get him killed. And he does not deserve that."_

"_What can I do?" _

"_Get me in touch with Steven Miller."_

xxxx

In the end it had been easy, Mary had edited the clip herself – amateur software, some Youtube clips and picture of Moriarty from his time at court was all she needed. Computer skills had been part of her education. The clip she had put on Blue Ray and send anonymously to Steven. 10 million pounds were all the inspiration he needed, so the only thing left to do was sending a text message via pre-paid phone. All comes well in the end, Mary had thought. A plan was set in motion. A plan to save Sherlock Holmes.

But Steven had been stupid. As decided, he had hacked the cable network and made sure some friends took over the BBC network in a multiple hacker attack. Five people, a million for each. That had left Steven quite a rich man, and a man living dangerously. But instead of leaving the country as his contact – an elderly lady as he could judge from the two phone calls they had had – had asked him to do. He stayed, doing what he always did: Gambling. Five million could easily turn into eight, ten or twenty with the right cards. But the right cards never came and so he continued gambling instead of packing his things like promised. He was a liability but not clever enough to make that assumption himself. Never in his life had he thought about the consequences it had – for him and others – if he did not keep his promises. But maybe… maybe even a daft man like Steven could have recognized there was a difference between his normal lies and what he did now: Telling your girlfriend never to cheat again while lying in the bed with another was one thing, but staying in the country after a coup like that… this was pure stupidity.

And so it should not have come as a surprise that one day Steven came home finding a man waiting for him: A gentleman in a bespoke suit, a gentleman with a gun.

Steven Miller's body was found two days later, as an employer he was easily linked to hacking into the cable network and the illegal publication of Moriarty's message. Thanks to Mycroft Holmes and his contacts Steven Miller was connected to Moriarty's criminal network – strings the agency had overseen before. He was linked to two other hacks and a bank robbery – all in all earning him about 10 million pounds. But after that the investigators lost track. Nothing could be found about who might be the go-between between Steven Miller and criminal mastermind James Moriarty – still in hiding and a lingering threat.

The investigations were still running, but with its head investigator currently in hospital the search was put to a halt. Still there was Lady Smallwood and a suspicion lingering… could it be?

Mycroft in hospital knew all that and so was Mary.

"I needed to tell John", she said.

"So he knows, too…" It was not a question. "I should have guessed."

Mary – never easily touching others – took his hand. Mycroft flinched. "He says he is sorry. For what he said to you, for what he did… keeping you away from our baby, closing the door in front of your face, pushing you out of his way and… that must have hurt… but he was so angry and you seemed to care so little."

"And now he is angry with you. For lying… again. For endangering the child you were carrying while… while we did what we did." Mycroft gave her a weak smile.

"He will come to terms… at least he knows the purpose this time. And he understands why we did what we did, no matter how much he disapproves of the methods. But what comes next, Mycroft? What shall we do know? Surely you have already made a plan should it come to this."

Mycroft closed his eyes, breathing in, preparing for the worst to tell. Somehow he had come to trust Mary, John's mad assassin-wife, his brother's attempted murderess, the person he would normally order to secure and put away in some place safe. But he did not. Instead he had fallen for her charms, her wit, her protectiveness. And deep down he had come to terms, that Mary might indeed be a good person, even though her own history told a different story. He trusted her to keep Sherlock safe when he could not. No longer. She would do it not out of guilt, but caring – for Sherlock. For John. Above everyone else for John.

"Nothing comes next, this time, Mrs. Watson. Mary. There was once a time when I promised myself I would never let myself be let astray by my brother again. It was during my first year in university, I had taken up studying after being quite ill for some time. I enrolled for law, political science, business administration and later on history and physics – only because I could and I was bored. Imagine that! Of course, I chose some of my study topics according to my career aspirations in administration. Running a country – what boy would not dream of that." Mycroft laughed a bitter laugh. "I never asked how my parents would pay for it. Luckily enough I got a scholarship that paid at least a vast amount of the fees. My brother was still young and mischievous and – like always – bored and my parents happy that at least one child was doing well.

I worked hard – far too hard most of the times. I only slept a few hours every night, ate less and less. I thought I had to make up the time I had lost due to an illness I had during my teens. My parents were rather proud and so was I. I finally was on the right track.

One day – it was one of our regular Sunday afternoon phone calls – mother told me Sherlock had taken a fever. First I thought nothing of it, but then three days later Sherlock called me late at night. I was still studying even though it must have been far past midnight. Sherlock sobbed and begged me to come home. He said he was in so terrible a pain. I asked him to call mother but he hung up on me. I tried to call back but no one answered the phone. I panicked. Like I have never before. And so I borrowed my roommate's car. I had a license but detested driving. It was late and a long way home. I hadn't had a decent rest in days. What I did was irresponsible in every way.

But Sherlock was ill, so ill. I drove through the night, exhausted, desperate. I do not know what happened in the morning, I still do not remember properly. Maybe I fell asleep; maybe it was really only bad luck as a judge later ruled.

I was nearly home when a little girl jumped in front of my car, I think I tried to brake, but it was to late. She was dead in an instant. She and her mother had been on their way to the bakery to fetch fresh bread rolls, it was her father's birthday. She must have been exited and slipped out of her mothers grasp and ran on the road… like children do…

Of course I did not come home in time. But it would not have mattered if I had, because that night Sherlock for the first time had lied to me. Yes, he was ill. But it was only a light flue. But because of the coughing he had not been able to sleep and instead called me to force me to come home. To help him beat the boredom. He even hid the phone so no one could answer my call and tell me to stay where I was. He lied to me and I… I ruined everything. I never forgave myself that… perhaps I have not forgiven him as well…"

Mary who had been quite for all this time now spoke up. "But you still do everything for him."

"Yes. Always" Mycroft closed his eyes. He felt so tired. "This is something I could never force myself to do: To abandon my brother no matter what he did. After that accident I promised myself I would do many things for my brother but never that much again. But my brother is a greedy man; always taking more than one can offer him without inflicting pain on one's very own soul. He does not mean to, but that is who he is. Always has been. Greedy."

Mary shook her head, clearly in awe that Mycroft was opening up to her of all people.

Mycroft laughed softly. "Do not wonder about something that mundane. Of course I would talk to you about this. We are in this together, if we like it or not. And I know all your secrets, too, after all."

"Does it mean there is still a chance that you will ever forgive me for shooting your brother." Mary's smile was something between teasing and true hope. A hope crushed.

"Never."

Silence filled the room, a silence of two people who had nothing to say to each other, now that everything that had to be done was done. Only Mycroft's heavy breathing and the sound of Mary's hands nestling on her blouse filled the room.

"It is not over yet", Mycroft said. "Sherlock knows, but there are others who don't. And they will not stop searching for whoever was responsible for this."

Mary nodded. "We have to keep that at bay."

"Yes… perhaps it is time to stand trial for all my deeds… " Mary's face paled. "Don't look like that Mrs. Watson… Mary… your name will never fall. I still do know what is best for my brother. And bringing you in to be questioned is definitely something who would never forgive me. And I would not take your baby girl's mother away. Don't think that badly of me. But there is nothing left for me, nothing but finally doing what my brother always needed me to do: Let go, stop controlling and let others do the deed. As I said: Nothing comes next. I don't have anything left to loose."

And so a not so secret plan was formed: A plan to go to prison if necessary. A plan to give up a live that meant less to Mycroft than that of his little brother: His own, Mycroft's stupid and failed attempt to build something for himself. No words were needed for this plan. Only a slight nod of the woman Mycroft had accepted was no longer a thread to his brother. And so again it came to pass that Mycroft did not do what was right, but what would safe his detested, beloved brother.

**The same day, 221B Baker Street**

While Mycroft would always remember the dead little girl in her pale yellow dress, Sherlock had already deleted that once he had caused his brother unbearable pain. There were other incidents he had tried to forget, too, but never succeeded: That one time, when he had overdosed and Mycroft had carried him through detox forcing his brother back into life. The second time was in Serbia when Mycroft dragged him out of the cellar-turned-torture-chamber whispering his name over and over again, encouraging him to move on even though Sherlock felt so tired that all he wanted to do, was sleeping. And then there was the third time. This Sherlock remembered with all clarity even though he had been high on pain medication. It must have been shortly after he had collapsed in his flat confronting Mary. He had woken up in a hospital room stuffed with flowers and well wishes. And hiding between all the flowery overload sat his brother, sobbing silently, tears streaming down his face. He had looked so heartbroken and sad… Later when Mycroft told him, that it would break his heart to lose him, Sherlock had only joked. But deep inside he had known it to be true. And it had terrified him beyond measures. It still did. It always would.

He was a greedy man, he took what he could and only seldom gave things back. But this time was different. His brother had offered him everything: his life, his soul. And Sherlock had willingly sacrificed both over and over again. Because as the younger brother he had never considered it was not in his right to take everything his brother laid on a plate in front of him. He had taken more than was due and now was time to give something back. His brother's life. His brother's freedom.

And so another secret plan was formed, a plan how to save Mycroft Holmes.

**The next morning in hospital**

Mycroft was finally awake when the doctors came in the next morning. Anthea was there, Mycroft had not wanted her to come, but she had insisted. She did not bring flowers, like his mother had. Not chocolate – he was not allowed to eat that. She had brought others things so much more meaningful. Mycroft's own sheets, something decent to wear, the ointment for his still burning skin and the white gloves he had started to wear when alone. She knew. And Mycroft no longer cared.

Arrangements had been made for his release but were cancelled again. Mycroft would stay in intensive care. The coronary had affected more than 30 per cent of his heart muscle leading to a cardiogenic shock that had nearly killed him. The doctors still were not sure how much his heart had been damaged but hoped the medications would be able to stabilize the patient enough. Still there was the change the heart would not start beating properly on its own again. They would have to discuss other options soon.

Anthea took notes, Mycroft was sure she would directly head to different specialists ensuring he would get the best care possible. As if he cared.

He was so tired.

xxx

When Sherlock came in the next time, Anthea was gone and Mycroft asleep. And so Sherlock took a chair, placed it next to his brother's bed and sat down. The heart monitor was beeping irregularly, Mycroft's was face drawn and pale. And for the first time in many years, Sherlock took his brothers hand and raised it to his mouth breathing a soft kiss on his knuckles.

"Don't you dare die on me, brother mine. Don't you dare."

**To be continued**


End file.
